Hamlet, Retold

Hamlet is arguably William Shakespeare's greatest play. But the rich complexity of the 400-year-old text can bemuse a modern reader, undermining the intricacies of the characters and the twists of plot.

Hamlet, Retold is a contemporary, line-by-line, iambic-pentameter rewrite of the greatest tragedy of all time, intended to bring life to the original text through a direct, easily understood modern interpretation.

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ACT 3, Scene 1 - Hamlet's soliloquy

Original text

To be, or not to be: that is the question:Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause: there's the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,The insolence of office and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscover'd country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the willAnd makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action. Soft you now!The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remember'd.

Retold

To live, or not live: I have to wonder. Would I find greater honour if I sufferedThe stinging pain wrought by my wretched luckInstead of fighting back against my troubles, Which, doing so, would kill me? Death. I’d sleepNo longer. Being dead will be the endOf all the heartache and the seismic shocksThat life inflicts. Oh, what a state of beingWholeheartedly to hope for! Endless sleep!But sleeping, I might dream, and there’s the catch:For in that sleep of death, what dreams may comeWhen we have left this turmoil of existence?It’s worth a thought, for sure. That is the issueThat makes us tolerate our dismal lives,Because who would endure this dismal life,Abuse from those in power, swaggering insults,The pain of love rebuked, the law’s delay,Officials’ gall or all the condescensionThat decent folk endure from those less worthy,When one could turn this bullshit into silenceAll by a dagger’s stab? Who’d bear such burdens,To grunt and sweat their weary way through life,Unless it was in fear of worse in death, An undiscovered country from whose borderNo traveller returns, and makes us ponder,Concluding that we’d rather bear the painWe know of than of that that we do not? And so, awareness turns us into cowards;And thus our natural drive to solve a problemRecedes and fades through over-contemplation,And those endeavours, once thought so important,Lose depth and influence as time ebbs by,Resulting in inaction. Quieten up! My dear Ophelia! Love, in your prayersRemember all my sins.